


claymore drabble dump

by aspiringpencilcase



Category: Claymore
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-22 02:57:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13754805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aspiringpencilcase/pseuds/aspiringpencilcase
Summary: helen/deneve, fill for jean-snow @ tumblr:a softer world: i don’t know what the fuck true love even is but i do want to hang out with you for basically the rest of my life. (let’s hang out - TO THE DEATH)





	1. we'll make it alright to come undone now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> helen/deneve, fill for jean-snow @ tumblr: 
> 
> a softer world: i don’t know what the fuck true love even is but i do want to hang out with you for basically the rest of my life. (let’s hang out - TO THE DEATH)

Helen’s smile is wide and unabashed, as always. She points to the village to the right, tiny houses cluttered on the horizon.

“That’s Langdale, I think! They had the best ham, we absolutely must visit. And you’ll definitely like the beer.”

Deneve shrugs, a small smile nesting in the corners of her mouth. They still can’t reach their final destination of Helen’s hometown, even though they’ve been on the road for about a month; Helen insists on stopping in every southern town or village. It reminds her of her hometown, and they have, like, fucktons of time, she reasons, and Deneve agrees.

She agrees to an awful lot of Helen’s suggestions, like staying in some cave which is more moss than stone at that point and kissing near the bonfire, Helen’s lips as hot as the flames dancing in front of them; like traveling south to a town which might not exist anymore; like trying out food and drinks Deneve didn’t even know existed.

Like living, trying to leave the massacre which past few years have been behind.

They still have nightmares, both of them, and Deneve is grateful for the fact that they don’t need much sleep.

She always battles in her dreams, but she’s so weak she can’t lift her sword. She struggles and struggles and her claymores, her most faithful and ever-present, lay like stones at her feet.

When she’s awake, nails digging into dry skin of her palms, Helen is always here. She understands, they don’t need words at this point, and tells Deneve about her dreams.

Helen dreams are less eventful, yet more vivid: she dreams of stink.

“Like, imagine: a pack of yoma, blood, sweat and the smell of a swamp. All this packed together, only intensified and you can’t escape, no matter how fast you run. Neat, right.”

Deneve hums, flexing her biceps to reassure herself.

Helen’s presence is sobering, somehow, even though Helen is tart as the strongest wine: she brings out the sides of Deneve which she tries her best to keep hidden, raw passion and care.

Deneve would be happy to indulge in her for the rest of her life.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> clare and teresa, modern au, secret santa 2016, for aapzai @ tumblr

The street is illuminated with, seemingly, thousands of red and yellow and orange lights; they reflect in Clare’s fair eyes, highlighting the sheer delight in there. It’s already dark out and it’s Christmas Eve, so the decorations look amazingly pretty; Teresa has her hands full with shopping bags but even this fact can’t stop her from enjoying the view.

The air is buzzing with the concentrated excitement of the crowd; people around them are talking to each other in hushed voices, holiday spirit incarnate.

Clare’s shoulder brushes Teresa’s arm. They’re walking close; Clare hums something sounding suspiciously like “Last Christmas” under her breath. Teresa bites her lip in order not to laugh: no need to fluster Clare when she’s in such a good mood.

The silence between them is warm and soothing like a cup of sweet hot chocolate, the kind Clare likes to drink after her extra Math lessons, legs crossed and fingers intertwined around a steaming mug. They have always been ridiculously non-verbal: they don’t really need words to know each other, to trust each other.

To love each other.

“What have you bought for Mom? I hope we don’t end up with the same presents, as we did last year.” Clare frowns and blushes a little. This wasn’t the most dignified moment of their lives, Teresa is willing to admit it.

“A scarf. Black, for obvious reasons. You?”

“Mittens! So we make a complete set!”

Teresa’s smile widens and she reaches to ruffle Clare’s hair, who blushes and tries to shake off Teresa’s hand. She’s fifteen and she’s still embarrassed when Teresa or their mother do that, which, in Teresa’s opinion, is hilarious.

“We do, kitten, we do. Want to grab some coffee?”

 

Clare nods, vigorously, and they continue walking in silence, Clare’s hand finding its way into Teresa’s pocket. Teresa squeezes it tightly and Clare’s cold fingers start to warm up in response to the heat of Teresa’s palm.


	3. little talks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> teresa/irene in my reinc au + little talks prompt, for lee the gem of my heart

Sea water caresses Irene’s feet, waves’ songs low and soothing; Teresa sunbathes a meter away from her, humming something under her nose. Irene is ridiculously content: the sun is just outside her field of vision, the beach is almost deserted, there’s no pollen so her allergies remain calm.

“Hey, have you ever thought what would happen if we, you know, hadn’t met?”

Irene turns to look at Teresa. Her back is mapped with the white salt tracks, her wet hair are braided loosely and remind Irene of snakes and Ophelia. She shakes her head and frowns at the question.

“In the Organization? Or during this life?”

The words like “this life” are no longer a novelty, but they still make Irene’s inner sceptic cringe; you don’t really get used to being reborn.

Ii was thinking about now, but the organization will do. Just roll with it.”

Irene sighs and pretends to be irritated, except the gentle warmth of the sun smoothens her edges; her voice is soft when she answers.

“I doubt the earth’s rotation speed would change in any way. I’ll even go as far as to say I’m certain of it.”

She doesn’t say that it wouldn’t have felt right, that the empty space at her side would ache and burn without her knowing the reason of it. Her life wouldn’t stray from the determined course, that’s for sure; engineering major, stable job, her own place, maybe a small aquarium, transparent curtains for the sun to paint her walls gold. Missing pieces, unsettling dreams.

Teresa laughs, short and warm.

“Probably, but we wouldn’t know, would we?”

Irene looks up at the sky, shielding her eyes with her palm.

“Yeah, i suppose so.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dug up this relic while scrolling my writing blog i wrote this in my last grade of hs what the fuck  
> teresa/irene, fwbs during organization times Or Maybe Something More

Teresa is smiling.

This is by no means an unusual occasion, really, and the way Teresa looks at Irene’s lips when they bump into each other at dinner isn't that special either. (They don't ‘bump into each other’ though. Teresa is far too graceful for this and Irene is nowhere near being clumsy as well.)

It’s just, you know.

Teresa presses her lips to the line of Irene's ear and stays there, tickling Irene a bit with her warm breath; Teresa’s hand rubs little circles on Irene’s thigh and her fingers are intertwined with hers.

Teresa’s presence is overwhelming, her yoki strong and calm and cool around Irene, welcoming her in.

"Have i ever told you your ears are terribly cute?"

Irene wants to answer that yes, approximately a thousand times and stop doing that thing with your hand, this is distracting, but for some reason she only manages to nod and keep from leaning into Teresa’s touch.

She hears Teresa giggle and feels her pulling away from the tip of her ear only to bite at her chin; Irene totally doesn’t shriek. the whole situation evidently amuses Teresa to no end, but her hand is warm on Irene’s and her cheeks are flushed just a little bit.

Irene can live with that.


	5. firefly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ophelia and her siblings, for one-winged-beauty @ tumblr, for secret valentine's 2018

The southern nights are black as coal, Ophelia heard her mother say once, but the moon will light it up for you, dear. 

It holds true today, Ophelia’s favourite spot just outside their village’s garden is lit up with cold moonshine. She escaped just after dinner; it was undiscovered since her siblings were making a hassle over helpings.

“Hey, sunshine, what are you doing here so late? Mother is worried about you, you know.”

Or not so undiscovered.

Ophelia turns her head to see Laertes, smiling. Lucia is attached to his arm, tugging on the sleeve of his lumberjack shirt.

“Oh, you brought a firefly with you! Come here, Luce, let’s make a flower crown.”

Lucia utters something in agreement, clumsily walks up to Ophelia’s lap and falls down. Laertes sits near them, crossing his legs on the wet grass.

Ophelia ruffles Lucia’s brown curly hair and gets a weak headbutt in the chest for her efforts. The sky is almost black above her when she loses her balance and falls on her back. Myriads of stars are looking down upon her; Ophelia sighs.

The night is cool and almost palpably wet: Ophelia nearly feels the curling of her hair. Bright lanterns of flowers: poppies, daisies,

fluffy dandelions, are standing proudly, only wavering in rhythm with the breeze. The crown on Lucia’s head is a vivid smudge of colour in the darkness.

“Time to go, girls. I believe mother told me to bring you home safe, not to hang out with you till the sunrise.”

Not giving it much thought, Ophelia pokes Laertes in the side. He wails, mockingly pathetic, as if she hit him with full force. Lucia whines between the two of them, tired from lack of sleep.

“Okay,” Ophelia says, rising to her feet and holding Lucia, who already managed to doze off, “let’s go.”

She turns one last time to get a view of the flowers, but it’s late, just as Laertes said: they all closed their colourful petals and are almost invisible among tall wet grass. Ophelia shrugs and hurries to catch up to the fast pace of her older brother.

It’s alright, she thinks. She’ll have a lot of time to enjoy the flowers: it’s spring, after all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> clare/jean, for jean-snow @ tumblr, for music shuffle thingie  
> olafur arnalds - erla’s waltz

Clare is familiar with guilt. The drops of blood from Teresa’s slithered neck seem to never fade away, painting her skin red that no one save for Clare herself seems to notice.

Shadow of Jean makes aftermath of Pieta a living hell. Her touches that never came true, her eyes too close to Clare’s face: they mix with blood smeared all over Clare and smother her.

Clare knows they would’ve come to love each other, but she doesn’t know what to do with it now that Jean’s gone.

She chooses to forego sleep and the noisy thoughts. Forget and resent.


End file.
